Overdose
by The Misty Jewel
Summary: Kid!lock in which Sherlock has suffered an overdose, and Mycroft has no idea what to do. Typical. ;) Rated T for basically no reason, except mention of drugs. Mystrade fic.


Overdose

Mycroft sat by his brother's bedside. He grasped Sherlock's hand, white knuckled, fist clenched.

The heart monitor kept beeping. He loved that sound, and hated it. He loved it because it meant Sherlock was still alive, still breathing, still there.

But it reminded him of how many times things like this had happened, and how no matter how hard he seemed to try, his little brother kept going back to old habits.

Was he really so bad at this parenting thing, at keeping his brother in line? Did Sherlock really hate him, hate him so much that he thought drugs were the only escape?

Or maybe he was just making this dilemma up in his mind, and none of it was true, and Sherlock really did love him, but he was just so stupid, so unattached he couldn't see it?

Maybe Sherlock loved him, but he could never relate to his brother, could never get the human contact from his role model that he needed, and maybe that was why.

But who knew.

Sherlock might have been dull compared to Mycroft, but that didn't mean that the young politician knew what went on in his brother's head.

He sighed, and went back to alternating between staring at the walls, and heart monitor, and staring out the window, and looking down at his hand clenched onto Sherlock's for dear life.

It was a good thing he was teaching Sherlock to be unemotional. Emotions only compromised people. They were a defect. They would only hurt.

Too bad he'd already gotten so used to them, the most he could ever do was cover them up.

He covered them up well, it was true, but they were there. A raging sea underneath his skin, a churning storm in his head, an earthquake just below, just waiting for the right time.

He got startled out of his thoughts by a sudden voice.

"Um…" The voice said hesitantly, "Hi… I was just here for a case, is this Sherlock Holmes's room?" Mycroft looked up to see a young man standing at the door, shifting from foot to foot, and looking altogether quite uncomfortable. He had dark hair, but lighter eyes, and he seemed incredibly tired, as if he'd been doing this sort of thing all day.

"Yes, it is." Mycroft said, looking back down at his little brother as he answered. "I realized the police might get involved." He sighed, looked down from the face of his brother to the floor. He couldn't stand hospitals. "So, I suppose asking why you're here is quite out of the picture. Instead I'll ask who you are, specifically?"

The man at the door tilted his head slightly in questioning, but decided to roll with it. "My name is Lestrade, but you can just call me Greg right now." He said, a little half hearted wave accompanying his response, and then he drew up one of the white, sterile chairs in the room, and positioned it across from Mycroft.

He looked down at the noteboard he carried. He was obviously nervous, and Mycroft really couldn't see why. It was obviously all routine stuff, and this was nothing new to him.

Maybe he just didn't like hospitals either?

Probably not, though. Most of the population associated hospitals with death, and disease, but Mycroft got the odd gut instinct that this man really wouldn't have cared less most days.

Odd.

Lestrade (Sorry, Greg, Mycroft reminded himself.) flipped a few pages, and apparently found the one he'd been looking for. Very unprofessional, to be honest, to not be prepared already, but Mycroft really wasn't in the mood to upset someone who could have a part in his brother's fate.

Being a politician only got one so far. You still couldn't change straight facts, only twist them, and here Lestrade was (Greg, he wanted to be called.) writing the facts down in the first place, and so really Mycroft needed to be on best behavior.

He hoped Sherlock would not take this time to wake up and ruin everything with his rude deductions and childish insults.

"Okay…" Greg stressed the "O" in the "Okay", and looked down at the paper thoughtfully, as if he was avoiding looking at Mycroft on purpose.

That wasn't right though. Couldn't be, anyway.

"I take it you're Mycroft, Sherlock's brother?" Lestrade asked.

At least he knew his priorities, if nothing else.

"Yes." The curt reply came, the silence of the room somehow unshattered by either of their words, because the sound just seemed to slip away into some void where it didn't come back once it had been heard.

"Good. I also take it you're in charge of him at the moment?"

"Yes. Our mother and father are in America right now, on vacation, and he's left to me." The floor Mycroft had been looking at was very disinteresting, but he really didn't want to look up… Why? He barely knew, couldn't quite figure it out, but knew it was something obvious.

Lestrade wrote something down, probably just a note about their parents. On to the next question.

"Now, we know for a fact that Sherlock has been taking these… substances… for over a year by now?" Greg asked, and Mycroft noted without thinking that his voice got a bit softer; he knew it was a tender subject.

He'd done this routine before, true, but it still felt like something about the way Lestrade acted was off, like he wasn't used to something here, even though this was what he'd been doing for… what, 2 years? That was about right, yes.

Mycroft finally, finally looked up at Lestrade. "Yes." His voice was hollow. It was like a cavern, that echoed, and his own voice got lost in it's words. His eyes were hollow too.

And Lestrade could see that this whole ordeal was taking it's toll, Mycroft could tell, but Lestrade really didn't know what to do about it.

So he just went back to looking at the clipboard, too nervous about the politician in the other chair to look at him for too long.

Lestrade honestly didn't know why he was so nervous. It wasn't like this case was any different, or the victim in any different health, or the family any different.

Except the family was different. And it made Lestrade nervous, a clenching in his stomach, and a wet feeling on his palms from a bit of sweat. He shook his head and continued.

Mycroft watched the man sitting opposite him as he looked down at the clipboard shyly. He studied the posture the man had, and the way he held the clipboard, and the infliction in his speech pattern.

Lestrade fumbled a bit, and began. "So, we already know what Sherlock was on, and what dealers he went to, yes?"

"Yes." Another curt reply.

"So, really, the only reason I'm here is to ask you if you have any more information, actually. That, and ask if you need any help, or any questions answered." He read it off the clipboard, looking down so much it was almost funny.

"No, I don't think there's anything." Mycroft somehow failed to mention how Sherlock had gained at least 3 new dealers during this relapse, and didn't have any questions anyway.

In fact, he probably had more answers than this guy sitting in front of him.

He didn't have the answer to why he was nervous. There was a difference between frightened, and nervous. Fright was muscles locked, and eyes wide, and the flight or fight instinct, but nervous- Nervous was the darting eyes, and sweating palms, and the way he shifted in his chair even when he was comfortable.

Lestrade looked up again when he looked away. Mycroft saw it, a small glance in the corner of his eye. He was looking primarily at his brother, but that didn't mean he couldn't see Lestrade still.

Lestrade went over to stand next to Sherlock's bed, looked at the medical machines, and medicine, and the heart monitor. He looked down at the sleeping boy; black curls, a face so pale, it could have been angelic, if not for the dark circles under the eyes and appearance of malnutrition that screamed drug abuse to him. He had one hand strewn across the pillow, and his head was tilted to the side, and Lestrade could see the resemblance between Mycroft and him.

"He'll pull through." Lestrade said, walking over to stand in front of Mycroft. "I've seen a lot of people in a lot worse condition, and they didn't even overdose as much as he did. He's a strong kid." He smiled, that bitter smile, somewhat ironic, since it was so often the strong kids that were weak in willpower. "He'll be okay."

Mycroft looked at his brother's face worriedly. "This time, perhaps. But what about next time? He'll have more relapses, I'm certain."

Lestrade shook his head. "Nothing's ever set in stone." He said simply, looked back at Mycroft for a bit.

He held out his hand. "It was nice to meet you, Mycroft." He said.

Mycroft stood up and took the hand he offered. "Yes, it was nice to meet you too." He said simply, that normal sort of response that told Lestrade his mind was somewhere far away instead of actually in the room, with him, replying to him.

Lestrade looked down. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "This sort of thing happens so much more often then you'd think."

"Really?" A raised eyebrow in response.

"Yeah. I just wanted you to know that." Lestrade frowned. "Sherlock is nothing unique in this… perhaps he is in other ways, and I have no doubt he is, but he's not unique in this particularly." Lestrade blushed a bit. "It just usually helps people to know that they aren't a special case; that they aren't the only ones dealing with it."

"Yeah." Mycroft said, turned to look over at the bed again, and realized that he hadn't let go of Lestrade's hand after the handshake, and here they were holding hands, and-

He was never this emotional! He didn't know what had gotten into him today.

It was probably stress. That was all.

He let go of Lestrade's hand hastily, almost said sorry, but stopped halfway through the word.

Lestrade felt his heart fall a bit when Mycroft let go of his hand.

But he was working, and this was what he always did! Why would a break in schedule be welcome? He didn't know. Probably just the strain of the extra work they'd been loading on him.

Mycroft leaned against the side of the bed, looking down on his brother. He knew that the withdrawal had already been starting in as his brother slept. But it wouldn't bother Sherlock as much when he was asleep, and he hoped to god that Sherlock could sleep through it.

He noticed, mildly amused, that his brother's eyes were moving underneath his eyelids. REM sleep. His brother was dreaming right now, and Mycroft could only wonder what about.

At least one of them was at peace right now.

Lestrade looked at Sherlock. "How'd he get into it?" There wasn't much to the question, but they both knew what he meant.

"I don't know why, but I do know there was a druggie at his school. I suspected for a long time, but I never investigated." He closed his eyes. "I guess what's too late, is too late. It can't be changed now."

Lestrade was quiet. He'd never known of someone who knew that a family member was on drugs, and didn't do anything. "Didn't you try to talk to him?" He couldn't help asking.

Mycroft shook his head. "I tried. But he'd never talk back. He said that I wouldn't understand, that I wouldn't forgive him, that he hated me."

"I'm sure that's not true." Lestrade answered. He never quite knew if he meant it or not, but he felt he meant it this time. He leaned against the bed too, one arm leaning to prop him up as he looked at the sleeping boy, but noticed that he'd placed his hand right next to Mycroft's.

It was funny how you got hyper aware of stuff like that.

He didn't say anything for a bit, and neither did Mycroft, as a nurse came in and adjusted some of the medications for Sherlock. She looked over at the two. "He's doing okay." She nodded towards Sherlock.

Mycroft smiled in response, somehow saying all he needed to say without words. It said "Thank you" somehow, might even have been a better response then just saying it outloud. Lestrade wondered how anyone could manage that.

Mycroft looked over to the window. "You'd better go." He said. "I don't want to keep you, and I bet you have… at least 10 more interviews to go? In this hospital, at least."

Lestrade was stunned. "11, actually." He looked at his noteboard again. "How'd you know that?"

"It was an easy guess." Mycroft didn't feel like explaining his 'gift' to anyone.

Lestrade wasn't convinced, but he carried on. "No, it's okay. I usually get free time after anyway, so I may as well go slowly." He looked back at Mycroft. "Are you sure you don't have any questions?"

Mycroft shook his head.

"Well, thanks for helping." Lestrade held out his hand again. "I'd better get going on the others."

Mycroft shook it, and Lestrade walked toward the door. he paused on the way out, but Mycroft was still looking at his younger brother, so he just sighed and went.

o0O0o

It was a few hours later when Sherlock woke up. Mycroft quickly removed his hand from holding his brother's when he saw the beginning of a lighter sleeping pattern, and arranged himself in his customary posture, unattached, cold.

Sherlock's eyes opened a bit, but he was still fairly out of it, as was expected given the amount of medication they had him on. Mycroft waited a bit for him to come to.

When he did, Mycroft sat up bit straighter, closed his eyes, took on the tradition, Holmesian position that looked like a prayer. "Why?" One word.

Sherlock shifted in his position, to sit up. "Why what?" He asked, as if he didn't know.

Mycroft glared at his brother. "You know what." He couldn't help letting all the disappointment into his voice, all the loathing of what Sherlock had done.

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Not now, My."

Mycroft shook his head. "Yes, now, Sherlock." He looked at his brother. "Why." It wasn't a question anymore, it was a command.

"Because I felt like it."

"Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, that tone entering his voice. "Tell me. Now."

Sherlock sighed. "I don't know."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't."

Mycroft was getting tired of this. "Stop lying. I'm not going to stop asking, and we both know I can make you tell me."

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, undisguised loathing in his eyes.

Did he really hate him so much?

"Do you want to know why?" Sherlock asked angrily. "Could you not see why yourself?"

Mycroft sat silently. He knew not to interrupt his brother when he was like this.

"Are you really so blind you couldn't see how you were pushing me towards it all along?" He hissed. "Why didn't you let up just once? It was always grades, and social skills, and everything, and you expected so much! Didn't you even stop to think that it might get to me?"

Mycroft felt a shiver travel up his spine, but he kept his face a mask. "You could have told me."

"You just would have yelled at me." Sherlock replied harshly. He glanced at Mycroft, who looked about to say something. "You know what, just shut up. Just shut up and leave. We both know you don't really want to be here anyway. I don't want to get in the way of something that's actually important!"

Mycroft just sat, took the abuse. He thought about saying something. Something like "You're important" or the likes, but he refrained.

"You know, My, maybe if you actually paid attention, if you actually knew me, you might have seen it." Sherlock said quietly. He looked down at his hands. "Except you never do."

Mycroft looked at his brother. He knew it was probably the withdrawal talking, but it still hurt. "I've tried my best." He said weakly.

"Well your best was never good enough." Sherlock said tiredly. "And I doubt you gave it your all, even if you tried to."

Mycroft just looked at his brother. The horrible aching that the words made was hard to mask, and some of it slipped out onto his face, in the way his skin paled and his eyes glinted with a bit of fear.

Fear that his brother hated him.

But Sherlock didn't notice that. "Don't pretend like you care." He said quietly. He was looking down at his hands as he said it.

"I do care." It was the obvious response, but Mycroft didn't really care about that right now.

Sherlock sighed. "No, you don't. You're just pretending so that people like you more, and so you get promoted, and everything. I'm not stupid, My."

Mycroft was silent. He sat and looked down at the floor. "What can I do better?" He finally asked after the long suffering silence.

"Nothing." Sherlock replied quickly. "You can get out of my life. You can stop meddling just to get what you want out of me. You can leave."

Mycroft leaned forward. "I want to help, Sherlock. Try to let me."

"No."

"Why not?" Mycroft asked, looked Sherlock straight in the eye as he asked, made the younger Holmes boy squirm a bit in his bed.

"Because no matter what, it won't change what you've already done!" Sherlock's words struck out like a viper. "Because after all these years, you never cared about me, you never even had a passing thought! Because it was obvious you hated me, and so now I hate you!"

Mycroft sat back. His face went blank, and his eyes lost their focus for a second. I hate you! Sherlock had said.

So he really did hate him?

He really was such a horrible person, such a bad sibling that Sherlock would go as far as to hate him? Sherlock never particularly liked anybody, but he never hated anyone either, and now he hated him?

Was he really such a terrible person?

He stood up, brushed off his suit professionally, and his face resumed its mask, its perfect, unmarked, unharmed look, and he hid the turmoil that raged underneath his skin.

"Well, brother mine, I must be off." He said evenly. "After all, like you said, more important things must be done." His tongue was like a shard of glass, and not only did it visibly cut Sherlock, it cut him as well. Why did he have to say that? He hated how his response to these situations was always hostility. He had never been able to change that.

He left the room without another word.

o0O0o

He walked into the lobby, and hugged his arms around himself, even though he wasn't cold. And he shivered, even though he wasn't cold.

He bit his lip, and tried to think of anything else besides Sherlock. The countless conspiracies that were happening, the government's new laws, the relations with America, and other countries.

And he kept thinking about that, and it eased him a bit, and he closed his eyes as he walked because it helped him think, and so he almost ran into Lestrade, who was passing him in the Lobby.

"Hey!" Lestrade said. "Hi! Didn't think I'd see you again." He smiled. "Leaving so soon? Won't your brother wake up soon or something?"

Mycroft looked away, and down, and anywhere but Lestrade's face. "Yeah. He did. He told me to go home and get some rest, and I think that's what I'm going to do." The lie came out easily, as usual.

He and Lestrade walked to the entrance of the Lobby, and they exited through the automatic doors.

"So you're done here, then?" Mycroft asked, tried to change the subject.

"Yeah, that's all the victims we had in this part of the city this week, fortunately."

"Hmm. That's nice then." Mycroft said distantly.

"How was Sherlock? He happy to see you?"

Wrong question.

Wrong, wrong question.

And Mycroft stopped walking down the street with Lestrade, just stood there, and Lestrade watched as the politician seemed to deflate a bit. Something just went out of him, the spring in his step, or the glint in his eyes, or something like that.

Mycroft shuddered a bit. His face distorted in the way Lestrade knew well; trying to keep something bottled up inside.

"He said he hated me."

It was quiet, and Lestrade could barely hear it over the cars passing and other conversations.

Lestrade backtracked over to Mycroft. "I'm sure it was just the withdrawal. Plenty of people say stuff like that after overdosing. It's their defense."

Mycroft shook his head, put a hand on his abdomen like he felt he might be sick. "No." He shook his head over and over again as he answered. "Sherlock was in his right mind."

Lestrade swallowed a bit. "How do you know for sure?"

"You don't know my brother like I do." Mycroft said angrily. "No one does, and I can barely scratch the surface!" He looked close to tears. "I can't help him, and I try and try, and I can't!"

A tear. Maybe a few more. Mycroft just stood there, Lestrade right in front of him. He stepped closer and pulled Mycroft into an awkward embrace.

"He didn't mean it." Lestrade whispered into Mycroft's ear. "He didn't mean it."

Mycroft's shuddering was so much, Lestrade could feel it, and he just hugged the politician, and kept whispering the same thing: "He didn't mean it." over and over, and he felt the other man sob a bit. Not much. Just a bit.

Lestrade really couldn't have cared less about the odd looks people were giving them. He really couldn't.

After a few minutes, the shudders died down a bit, and he pulled out of the hug, and Mycroft smiled a bitter, sad smile at him. "Thank you." He said simply.

Lestrade took one of Mycroft's hands. "It's no problem." He looked around as they continued to walk. "Where are we going?"

"Oh, I was going back to my flat." Mycroft said. "But I suppose yours isn't this way, right?"

"No, but it's fine." Lestrade said. "I can do with a long walk once and a while. Being cooped up in a hospital every day… it makes you want to get out more anyway."

He squeezed Mycroft's hand, and Mycroft looked away.

Shame. Shame at letting his mask slip, at having such an over spill of emotions. Shame, shame and terror, terror that he'd scared Lestrade away, or that Lestrade would judge him on it.

Lestrade looked over at Mycroft. "You know," He said thoughtfully. "I really didn't mind that. People who keep their emotions in… they can get problems. And it hurts the people they love- they never see that they care about them."

He paused a moment to consider. "Well, it's okay sometimes. But it's always good to show you're human, is what I'm saying."

Mycroft looked back at him. "Really?"

Lestrade smiled, squeezed Mycroft's hand again. "Yeah, I think so." He looked at Mycroft. "You know, sometimes you should face your fears, too." He said softly.

Mycroft looked up. "You mean go back and talk with my brother?" He asked incredulously. "I doubt it."

Lestrade stopped walking, pulling Mycroft to a halt too, because they were still holding hands. "I think so, though."

Mycroft visibly gulped, and Lestrade wondered if he was doing the right thing.

"You don't know Sherlock like I do." Mycroft said quietly. "Going back will change nothing. He's already hated me for several years, and I figure this was just it finally getting said out loud."

Lestrade tugged at Mycroft's hand a little. "Come on." He said, started walking back, and pulling Mycroft with him. "It can't be that bad."

Mycroft shook his head. "It is that bad."

"Why?" Lestrade asked incredulously, just thinking it was an excuse to get out of talking to his brother.

"Because…" Mycroft closed his eyes as Lestrade half guided, half dragged him the way they'd come. "Sherlock is different. From other people. He can see your life story like it's written on you, and he keeps grudges, and is impossible to argue with. He's an enigma, and I really don't know what he wants." Mycroft somehow forgot to mention how he could read people's life stories as well.

"Maybe you don't know, but he does. All you need to do is listen, and you'll figure out what he needs."

What an optimist.

Mycroft was a realist though. Which, of course, meant that to everyone else, he was much more a pessimist than anything else.

Mycroft just decided to roll with it. There really wasn't much he could say to convince Lestrade that the truth was there really wasn't much hope to this course of action.

But of course, when they finally reached the hospital entrance, Mycroft dug his heels in and stopped getting dragged/guided along by Lestrade.

Lestrade looked at him. "What?"

Mycroft sighed. Was he really so blind? He was, apparently.

Lestrade let go of his hand. "What?" He repeated.

Mycroft looked up at the building. He didn't want to do this because he was afraid-

Not afraid, it's just he already knew it wouldn't do any good. What the point in trying something when you already knew it wouldn't work?

So he said that outloud. "Why should I try something when I know it'll fail?"

Lestrade's answer set him off guard. "Because it makes a difference. Giving up means you don't really care, and trying, even when you know it'll fail, it means you'll never give up, it means you won't stop caring." He looked thoughtful. "It just… makes it different. Somehow."

Mycroft nodded a bit. He might as well, he guessed. What Lestrade said, why not?

The elevator was crowded, and Mycroft hated crowded places, but he sucked it up, and hit the button for floor 15.

The room's door was closed, and he really wanted to leave it that way, not enter, just walk past it, and then find a flight of stairs or another elevator, to leave the floor, to escape.

Lestrade stood next to him. "Come on!" He said impatiently. "You've already had at least 5 second thoughts about this, now's not the time to get another and leave."

Lestrade pushed the door open a bit, and gave Mycroft a clap on the shoulder. "Go on, then."

And when Mycroft entered hesitantly, Lestrade stayed outside, leaned against the wall, crossed his legs. He didn't want to intrude a family conversation, only wanted to help start it.

The door closed after Mycroft entered, a soft click of metal against wood, and Lestrade leaned against the wall a bit more, and hoped that he'd done the right thing.

Mycroft sat down in a chair opposite of Sherlock's bed. "Well, Sherlock." He said quietly. "Are you quite done with your little temper tantrum, or do I need to leave for another hour or so?"

Sherlock watched Mycroft warily. He was a bit hurt, to be honest, that his tauntings had elicited no major responses from his older brother.

But now he looked at Mycroft, up and down, thoroughly, and noticed the way he held a defencive posture, looking wary, and a bit fearful, (Although Sherlock always had a hard time telling, the details were so small since Mycroft hid his emotions so well.) and he noticed, with a pang in his chest, that Mycroft's eyes were slightly red, and he was biting the inside of his cheek, a sure sign of stress, or nervous tension.

Had Mycroft been crying?

No.

No.

He hadn't been crying. He couldn't have been! Why would Mycroft cry?

It certainly wasn't because Sherlock had yelled at him…?

And Sherlock felt a huge fist clamp his stomach as he realized Mycroft had been crying, and it had been because of his words.

Mycroft watched his brother warily. He looked him straight in the eye. "Well? Are we ready to actually talk, not yell like animals?"

Sherlock nodded stiffly. He never liked agreeing with his brother, but once and a while they both did have the same opinion on a subject.

They were both quiet. Dead quiet filled the room, stifled everything inside, and Sherlock could hear the white noise of the Hospital, that small buzzing that you got when you were alone in a building or room, and all was quiet, and you could hear the sound of the house itself, whether it was the heater or the air conditioning, or the groan of the house in the wind.

Mycroft sighed, and spoke up first, knowing full well that Sherlock would wait until the end of the world just to not be the one to apologize first.

"I'm sorry." He said it quietly, and he felt shame at saying it outloud, like apologizing was a bad thing, or it meant he had lost by saying it first.

Childish.

But the feeling was there all the same.

Sherlock swallowed. "Why should you be sorry? I'm the one that yelled." His forehead wrinkled as he tried to understand why Mycroft was just apologizing instead of making it difficult for him as revenge.

"And I'm the one that was stupid enough not to see what you needed, and I deserved to be yelled at a bit."

"You're smarter than me." Sherlock said, and it was obvious he was just trying to change the subject, put off talking about this.

"Not all the time." Simple answers and questions were harder to deflect, Mycroft decided.

"How?"

"Are you trying to make this as hard as possible?" Mycroft asked irritably. "Sherlock, what I mean to say is I don't always know when you need me." He said simply. "I mean, I know what you're doing all the time, and where you're going, but it doesn't give me a clue as to what I need to do to help you." He looked down. "You have to help me with that."

Sherlock nodded a little.

"But you need to be open to me. You can't just ask for me without telling me why. I have to know things to help you." Mycroft said softly.

Sherlock nodded again. "Okay."

Long pause.

Long, long pause.

And Sherlock finally, finally spoke up again. "I'm sorry too."

Mycroft smiled a bitter smile. "Apology accepted." He said formally.

A nurse came in a few minutes after. She attached some more medicine to Sherlock's IV. "This is going to make you drowsy." She told him. "So you might as well go ahead and sleep, okay?" She sounded almost like their mother, telling them to go to bed.

Sherlock nodded. He seemed to be doing that a lot right now, and he hated it, but it just kept happening. "Thanks."

Mycroft watched from the chair as his younger brother drifted off into sleep. He noticed how Sherlock's body finally untensed, relaxed so it was sprawled across the bed in something that finally bore a resemblance to peace.

He walked over and kissed his brother's forehead, angled the bed a bit lower (It was the kind of Hospital bed that could change inclines) so that Sherlock didn't wake with a stiff neck, adjusted the blankets a bit.

He left the room, entered the hallway again. He closed the door softly, just like he'd entered it, a soft click, of metal against wood.

He took a deep breath of the sterile Hospital air, looked over, and was surprised to see that Lestrade was still there, leaning against the cold brick wall to his right.

"Still here?" Mycroft asked.

"Of course." Lestrade said. "I wanted to make sure everything went okay."

"Everything went fine." Mycroft gave a giant sigh of relief, a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. "Everything is fine."

Lestrade smiled. "Well, that's good, isn't it?"

"Yes." Mycroft answered airily, looking somewhere else, not visible to the eye.

They started to walk, and the elevator was quiet on the way down. They began through the Lobby again.

"Thank you." Mycroft said quietly. He always thanked people quietly, and he didn't exactly know why, but he just did. He had that habit, if it could be called a habit.

Lestrade could see he was sincere, too, in the way he hugged himself a little, and looked away. "It was no problem." Lestrade told him. They were outside the hospital by now, rounded a corner, came to another street, but slowed down, and they both stopped talking for a bit.

Eventually Mycroft stopped walking completely.

"No really. Thank you." He said, somehow managing to look Lestrade right in the eye this time, and they were both incredibly conscious of how close together they stood at the side of the sidewalk, near the wall of the stores, out of the main area where people would walk.

But it was quiet right now. Rush hour had yet to come, and only a few cabs raced by on the streets. This was the time in the city when it was the quietest, (Although the city was never quiet.) just before the big rush to get home, and it wasn't a good day for tourists either, so no one had thought to go out during the middle of the day.

A city just before rush hour, when the sounds of the people and cars and buildings were small compared to later, was just like the time of night just before morning, in the way that it was silent, so silent you could almost hear the snow settle on the ground in the wintertime. And everyone knew that the time before dawn was beautiful, even if few actually experienced it to it's fullest extent, and so that made the city beautiful too, just before the rush of cars, and engines, and bustle to get out of work, a lull in the business, a relaxed feeling that slipped over the city like a blanket, and it seemed to make everyone who was outside relax a bit, even if they weren't aware of it.

And they were both painfully aware of each other, and how close they were standing, since Lestrade had backtracked to make up for the distance he'd walked ahead without Mycroft, and Mycroft got that nervous energy that sparked around and made him want to run and dash away, or at least take a step back.

And at the same time he got another impulse to go forward, and so he just stood there, not going either way, trying to figure out what to do.

Eventually, after a few seconds, the second impulse won out, and Mycroft hesitantly took Lestrade's hand, felt how cold it was, probably from the fact that Lestrade didn't have any pockets to put his hands in in the first place, and-

His mind went off deducing things like crazy, and he somehow managed to think a million things at once and none at all.

He didn't even realize he'd leaned in and kissed Lestrade until it was almost over, and when he got that, his mind, which was like a machine, tearing itself to pieces (Sherlock always liked that simile.) suddenly stopped, just seemed to stop working, and the intellect that he'd had over everyone since the moment he could remember suddenly abandoned him, left him all at once and for once it was nice, not thinking, not having the overpowering sense of a million different facts churning in his head at once and-

The kiss broke, and Lestrade looked up at him quizzically, face blushing.

And they stood there, holding hands like nothing had really just happened, and Mycroft felt that fear tugging at him again, that instinct to run, or to take a step back coming in a bit, but he didn't let it have anything over him.

Lestrade looked at him, like he was still trying to figure out if that had just happened too, just like Mycroft, and looking like his mind had just left him as well.

A moments pause, and Mycroft's power to speak came back again.

He stood there a minute, that sense of fear he'd pushed away enlarging and tugging at him to run, and he managed to say "I'm sorry," and let go of Lestrade's hand a little hurriedly, and looked away.

Lestrade looked at him. He took his hand again, squeezed it in that reassuring way he had when he'd gotten Mycroft to go back and visit Sherlock again. "Don't apologize." He said softly, looked at Mycroft with some look on his face, some cross between complete surprise, and some faraway gaze that made Mycroft think maybe he had actually liked the kiss in the first place, unlike his original assumption.

They still stood incredibly close, and Mycroft almost stepped away (Again.) but managed to stand there, probably more because his legs seemed to have gone numb than the fact that he resisted the impulse to step away.

They both looked at each other. Lestrade drew up for another kiss, and Mycroft let him, was infinitely aware of the contact, and again a million thoughts and nothing at all, and-

He enjoyed this, this feeling of not thinking, where the tumult inside his head stopped, settled to a peaceful, tranquil nothing for a while. It helped to stop the overwhelming amount of information in his mind, whereas before he would shut everything out to stay safe, perhaps safety also lay in trusting another person, leaning on them as them leaned on you as well.

It lasted longer, and neither knew exactly how long.

And Lestrade wondered how he'd ever gotten through life without a politician. Sure, he hated most, but this one was okay.

And Mycroft, despite usually having the answers, also wondered. He wondered how he'd ever managed life while burying his emotions, and he wondered how he'd ever made it through life without someone in law close at hand.

Of course, he had lots of people in law close at hand.

But this was different.

And they both knew it.

A/N- Okay, so I actually wrote this a while ago, and my friend just prompted me to post it today, so… yeah! It's a very rough beta if you ask me, went over it once or twice and that was it, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway!

Concrit, reviews, etc. make my day! Try to tell me how to improve- I always want to learn and get better!

-Misty


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